


Permafrost

by oceansinmychest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amputation, Character Study, One Shot, Post-Canon, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of cannibalism, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 15:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15246681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: After the disappearance and mutual self-destruction of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, Bedelia Du Maurier goes into hiding. The freezing cold rots her soul.





	Permafrost

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal can be a... triggering show so I tried to tag this as a forewarning. I do not condone any of the actions or behaviors of these characters. I find Bedelia a fascinating character and wanted to explore her more. I do wish a fourth season would have picked up, but alas.
> 
> Rimsky-Korsakov's Kashchey the Immortal inspired this.

How is it possible to be the residue of a person left behind? Go ask Bedelia Du Maurier. If you can find her, that is. 

Hiding, Bedelia finds, is not an act of cowardice, but a matter of self-preservation. She paves her way in euros, in pounds, in dollars, in whatever currency is necessary to leave no trail behind.

It’s safer to lock herself inside a room like a dancer in a box. No longer does she waltz to a tune. A phantom sensation tugs at her leg or what’s left of it, at least. In a hotel, she overlooks the view that paints a river at midnight with the twinkling glow of the cityscape. Rows of buildings stand at varying heights. Glued to the bed with its bleached white sheets, she refuses to approach the window, as if someone or _something_ could be lured inside.

Paler and gaunter than usual, she’s half the woman she used to be. She likens herself to a porcelain doll, coddled and kept, but that isn’t wholly true. She extrapolates the narrative, that is her choice.

Another one of Bluebeard’s wives, locked up and dismembered, the irony is not lost upon her as she imagines Will Graham in sheepskin.

Would it matter if she died? Would it matter if she filled her pockets with stones? Would it matter if she swallowed pills? Would it matter if she climbed out the window? Entertained by these literary devices for self-destruction, she musters an embittered smile.

Strung out, spun out, she vies for opulence and vice. A raw, savage hunger cramps her stomach. It’s an endless craving that existed long before Hannibal. She needs a placebo effect: a pill to kill the feeling. So, she cracks open a bottle with no label. Its chalky and uncomfortable to swallow, her tongue prone to bitterness. So, the Rx Queen chokes it down with the numbing burn of scotch.

Just like that, Dr. Du Maurier disengages. _I am Lydia Fell._ It’s a mantra that reverberates within her skull. Louder than thunder, louder than Hell. She had behaved beautifully - played the role so convincingly that even Bedelia believed it. It’s all unnecessary now. No one asks who she is. The error of a false marriage hangs over her head. Lydia Fell is no more though Bedelia clings to the vestiges of that constructed identity. Check-in for these places operates more smoothly that way.

Here stands the residue of a stranger’s life. More than a physical piece of her has been amputated. The cane against the wall could be mistaken for a crozier. Funny how she feels heavy still.

Even now, she maintains grace in her appearance. Her hair has been fixed into a stylish, permanent wave of bottle blonde. Her face remains a death mask, smoothed out despite the slightest hint of time, all faint lines that seem intentional. The ivory, silken nightgown sticks to her skeleton. Her bones are the cage that welcomes death.

In the nightstand by the bed, a folded piece of paper with numbers sleeps. It’s safer, Du Maurier concludes, to lock herself in some self-made prison. The Devil’s never far away despite the press’ slander.

The phone rings. The receiver grows cold. Dazed, blue eyes peer at the device as if it were an artifact. She’s taken to avoiding calls. Letting them die like patients. Like Neal Frank. She remembers how his throat closed around her wrist, locked around her arm, while she shoved his tongue deeper inside. Pulsating, twitching. Gorey, raw. 

This is no autumn fairytale. Lost to frost, she’s done terrible things. Some fueled by curiosity, others fueled by desire. Hannibal had been a useful key to unlock that cage.

With a well-worn sigh, Bedelia rises. Her jaw juts forward in minor discomfort. The prosthetic feels alien to her. Her nerves tingle. She grits her teeth despite the lack of an emotional response. This can’t be romanticized.

Her addled mind numbs her thoughts that are always keen to pick things apart. She had a talent for reading people for their worth, as though she weighed their heart and mind on the scale. It made her a good psychiatrist, but like with most aspects of her life, it ate away at Bedelia.

She dwells on countless letters she has written during this personal sentence - to no one (to Jack, to Dr. Bloom, to even Dr. Chilton) - only to toss them away. Once, she tore the paper to shreds and watched the fragments flutter in the wind like frantic, dancing moths.

Broken, she hobbles towards the glaring window and unlocks it. Dr. Alana Bloom would have made for a fascinating case study – blind trust tore her asunder and put together the pieces at a jagged angle. Bedelia has the sympathy to understand her pain though the relatability is lacking.

She feels the frost from the pane and idly wonders where there is left to hide. Her fingers trace the hollow impression of her name which is a human desire to leave a mark despite her need to refrain from that.

At last, she steps outside. The gust of wind nips at her cheeks until they redden. She no longer feels secure. Her eyes trace the long way down, similar to the plummet Hannibal and Will had taken. Perched on the balcony, she grips the windowsill with such titanic force. The freezing cold rots her soul.

The door creaks open. Even the noise holds a grudge.

She makes no attempt to look over her shoulder. She isn’t a damsel for a Hitchcock film. Her silhouette’s consumed by the shadow made by the dim light within her room. The unpredictable becomes predictable.

The tin of her voice makes her seem robotic.

“So you’ve survived.”


End file.
